Elizabeth's bedroom door gently clicked gently in the dark. Though quiet, the sound snapped her from a sleep so deep, time had temporarily lost its meaning. Hearing Estrella carefully creep to place her morning tray upon her desk, disappointment puffed in Elizabeth's chest—the first sign that old rituals of normality were returning. Recently, she'd practically sprang from her bed at ungodly hours, anxious for each day to begin. Today she'd hardly noticed the morning creep over her. What she did notice was the heaviness of her limbs, and how perfectly her feather tick and pillows seemed to be cradling them. She didn't even bother opening her eyes, for fear of disturbing the absolute comfort of the moment, or calling the day's events closer to her when all she wanted was to ignore them altogether.

Her weeks of delays had caught up to her at last.

"Are you awake, miss?" she heard Estrella call gently—a warning to brace for the curtains to be drawn.

"No," Elizabeth moaned hoarsely, and rolled from her side to her stomach to bury her face fully into her pillow. Though small, the movement summoned a tiny chorus of exhausted, aching signals from her body—her legs lamented her duel as expected, but strangely her upper back and right arm seemed very ready to offer their own complaints as well. And why did her head feel a little like she'd had too much to drink…? "I'm not certain I'm even alive—come back later."

Whispered scrapings of metal on wood indicated the curtains had begun to be drawn at last.

"I would love to," Estrella replied. Windswept birdsong joined the room, sounding the first window's opening. "Unfortunately for both of us, it's your father's orders that you be up and ready to receive the new housekeeper today."

Which meant returning to duty for a time, as promised.

And to make the day even less appealing, Elizabeth also had to make sure father still accepted her excuses for last night's shoddy escape attempt. Before bed, she'd managed to win some leeway by claiming she'd misunderstood their earlier conversation about faring Will well at the stables, and that they had walked out the back door in a daydream. But it was a weak lie, and she was fairly certain father had only chosen not to scold her due to the lateness of the hour. A lecture had to be forthcoming at the breakfast table.

Yes, this day was bound to be as tiresome as ever. Elizabeth resisted groaning again at that thought. Instead, she toyed with the temptation of simply falling back asleep, despite the risk of suffocation.

However, the more adult, reasonable part of her brain was finally beginning to wake back up, and it nudged the more childish side of her back in its place. She detested her duties and loathed her father's lectures. But ultimately her tasks weren't all that terrible in the greater scheme of things. Will had probably already been awake and working for several hours now, at an actual, hard labor. Estrella had also been awake for some time as well, and was milling about her tasks, uncomplaining. Hell, she could hear the entire port distantly buzzing with business, even from all the way up the hillside: ship's bells ringing, cartwheels grinding gravel, people's voices in a din…

Meanwhile, a governor's daughter's work involved… sitting. And thinking. And talking. And writing. And even more pathetically, the work done this week would actually lead to less work for her in the weeks to come. It would only benefit her to rise and get things over with.

But sleep sounded so good—especially after it had eluded her as long as it had throughout the night.

Frustration had followed Elizabeth to bed, and bit at the heels of her sleep for well over an hour. Though her pillows and mattress felt heavenly now, her aroused anxiousness had made their down fillings seem unnecessarily prickly. It riled up the energy she felt still simmering in her, causing her to turn and toss about. She'd tried reading, but could not concentrate. She'd tried to please herself with her fingers, to find a more complete release from her final, frenzied moment with Will by the stables. But to her great frustration, she could not find the precise spots or motions her body most desired for stimulation. So in the end, she'd been forced to give up, and burn and burn alone, until the embers of her passion slowly, quietly fizzled to sleep hours past midnight.

Once she'd fallen, her slumber had felt almost fathomless. But it had also felt fleeting and without body. It didn't feel nearly enough, in any conceivable way. For what now seemed only a few minutes, she'd been entranced by several dreams that had seemed to swirl together at once in her mind. She remembered many of them were disconcerting and confusing. In waking, their events were already swiftly becoming forgotten, their vague shapes the only memory she had left of their happening.

Ah, she needed to breathe.

Withdrawing cautiously from her pillow, Elizabeth rolled at a snail's pace onto her back towards the center of her bed, with an attempt to block out the sun by one forearm cast across her eyes. Now she was waking up whether she wanted it or not, truly feeling how stiff and sore her body was. She wanted to move even less. Her legs felt like they were made of solid lead, and were so locked in straight lines that if she bent her knees she almost felt she would shatter. It was like Will had said about once having to bend his own legs with his hands… And, to her groaning dismay, she began to realize these all were being joined by the first dull pangs warning her of the onset of her body's most persistent curse, from the very bottom depths of her belly.

Why now?

The sound Elizabeth made in her throat was pathetically hoarse. "I think… I'll need my aprons today."

Estrella's response was a laugh colored in vividly-felt sympathies.

"Oh, you poor dear. That's rotten timing, that is," she crooned, and shuffled about the desk, making pieces of porcelain tinkle softly. "Have your tea. It'll perk you up."

Tea… That actually sounded amazing right now. If she couldn't make herself get out of bed just yet, she could at least make herself sit up for tea and toast. Probably.

The pains continued as she shifted her weight about and sat herself up. But Estrella was diligent, and helped her stack some pillows to lie propped up against for a little longer. A part of her thought she ought to be embarrassed by how much she was acting like she'd been struck by a terrible fever or some other grave affliction, but she was too tired to care. When Estrella presented her with her morning cup and saucer, she accepted them almost greedily.

There was a slightly different taste to the tea today, a little more bitter than usual. Even so, the first fragrant sip was like heaven. However…

"I feel like hell," Elizabeth croaked.

The soothing, milky warmth of the tea coated her insides with gentle encouragement. But the pleasant feelings in her chest and stomach only illustrated in sharper contrast the many pains she felt throughout her limbs and lower belly.

"Thought you might," Estrella replied, and held out a plate of toast for her to take from. "I hope you don't mind it, but I added a bit of willow bark to your cup—should help with the pain soon."

Ah, that was what she was tasting. In swallowing her next sip, Elizabeth felt warmed and filled by gratitude as much as the concoction itself.

"Thank you," she effused to her maid, genuinely moved by her thoughtfulness. "You're a godsend, Estrella. Truly."

Once she'd plucked a piece of toast from the outstretched plate, Estrella set the rest down upon her nightstand. Then she returned to the tea tray at Elizabeth's desk, to continue her morning business as usual.

She replied, without bothering with so much as a shrug, "I'm just here to do a good job, miss—nothing more important than that."

The words were professional, but her voice had a pleasant chirp to it that sang with kindness. And not unlike yesterday, Elizabeth found herself wishing there was something she could do for her maid, besides simply sitting upon her throne of pillows, munching on toast, and complaining how awful her morning was. In fact, she was starting to feel quite silly about her whinging.

But for the moment, all she wanted to do was take her tea and watch Estrella cross the washroom with her morning pitcher of hot water, thinking groggy thoughts about how she might bring up with her father the suggestion to grant Estrella a day off. She became absorbed in this, and soon was playing imaginary conversations with father in her head, when suddenly something else occurred to her:

"I just realized, I ought to be calling you Miss Trattles now, with your new position, shouldn't I?" Elizabeth tried broaching the subject. "Though, it feels so formal, for someone acting as a companion."

Lower ranked maids were always called by their first names, but with her new official rank, there usually came a more respectful manner of address.

Usually. The names by which people called each other were one of the clearest ways people painted out their feelings. Terms of respect were good and well enough, but in a society ruled by dictates she often found stifling, she felt such terms could also feel distant and impersonal—especially when it came to the names of those she'd consider friends.

But not everyone felt the same. So, the question only remained what Estrella felt of the situation—and again, whether a servant and employer could ever really form a sincere friendship to begin with.

By now, Estrella had flipped open her linens chest, working on pulling out a fresh shift and apron. "Well, technically I'm still more of a ladies' maid than your proper companion, miss."

So, still a no on the friendship issue, it was sounding. At least so far…

"That's true, I suppose…" Elizabeth sighed, and took another long sip from her drink. Then cradling the teacup with both hands upon her lap, she let herself sink back into her pillows again, shutting her eyes. "I just want to lie here."

The lid to her linens chest was shut with a muted thud. As Estrella adjusted the white pieces of clothing draped over one arm, she kept milling about the room—this time preparing the changing corner by draping apron and shift over the screen.

"You may, for a few minutes more," she allowed. "But I'll need to know what you'll be wearing, in the meantime."

Elizabeth shrugged, and turned her head to look out her front window, down the green-swept hill into the humming harbor. "You choose. I cannot be bothered to care."

Now that she was coming to full wakefulness, she found herself also coming to terms with the consequences of yesterday. In doing so, she was able to admit that, aside from the tired aching of her limbs, there were a great many other parts of her which actually felt better. She felt refreshed, somehow. Like the madness of the weekend had managed to extend her little holiday from life, in one of the strangest but most lovely ways possible. And thinking of madness: the little lovesickness with which she'd been stricken throughout yesterday did seem to have finally loosened its hold on her in the night… eventually. At least, her ailment had eased up enough she felt more like herself again this morning, and less like some feverish, ravenous animal. In fact, she found as she gazed upon the edges of the city, she could think about Will in the smithy, about what he was doing now and what they'd done together yesterday, and simply bask in the more tranquil and sunny peace that balmed her heart day-to-day, thinking on him.

So for a moment, she allowed herself to daydream all over again, with a happy sigh. Though it had been speckled with moments of frustration, overall the weekend really had been filled with such beautiful opportunities she would love to relive again and again. She let her mind flit back across time to Will and her favorite moments with him: his laugh, his secrets, his hands; their games in the garden; their duel; their too-brief stolen moments and nearly-wild kisses… their agreement to meet in secret tonight.

Oh, that got her heart skipping with a palpable zeal, catching half a gasp in her chest. She had been so caught up in dreading the dreariness of the long day ahead of her, she'd almost forgotten it. But if she could bear with it and avoid suspicion, then her night… Oh, tonight…

"I take it your evening with Mister Turner went well?"

Elizabeth startled, and pulled herself back out of her reverie to see Estrella clearly. "I'm sorry?"

Even as she sought out a pair of Elizabeth's stockings, she had an audacious, knowing smirk upon her face. "You just had that particular look about you—the sighs of the morning after and all that."

"Oh!" Elizabeth breathed out in a slightly embarrassed laugh. "Am I as bad as that already?"

"You never weren't, miss—at least, not where he's concerned." Estrella paused for a moment, turning over in her eyes a little thought or memory at the same time she turned over the garments in her hand. "I heard you made good on your plans right away, slipping away from your father and all that."

"I suppose," Elizabeth really sighed at that. It was a sigh with twice the breath, combined between the satisfaction she felt thinking of that kiss—that kiss!—and the lingering frustration that it had to have ended as early as it had, while its taste and touch endured in a too-slow fading sensation deep into the night. "We only managed it long enough to speak, in the end. I doubt it would have been all that different if you had been there…"

But tonight…

Ah. Perhaps the fire, the sickness wasn't gone after all—only sleeping a little later than its mistress. She could feel herself stirring again.

'Best put those thoughts away today….'

Elizabeth did—fortunately with comparative ease, as her feelings seemed to still be somewhat sleepy themselves. She only needed to focus her eyes back on Estrella, and broach a new topic, "How was your bath yesterday?"

"Oh! Yes!" Estrella gasped quite suddenly, then stopped what she was doing and thrust her hands up to her elbows in her pockets. After some awkward sifting, she was able to withdraw a single, sealed note. "I was meaning to give this to you, miss, once you'd sat down for your other correspondence today. But I suppose, seeing as you're speaking on it, now's as good a time as any."

She held out the folded letter. Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up in surprise, before reaching out to take it and immediately break into its seal.

"Thank you, Estrella! Come sit with me for a moment," Elizabeth invited, and gestured to the foot of her bed.

The maid shot Elizabeth a quizzical expression.

Elizabeth shrugged her head to one side. "We can't be all that late. If I've a few more minutes for repose, I should think you ought to have some too. Come sit."

Now Estrella, though obviously flattered, gave Elizabeth a look deep with questioning. "My day's only just begun, miss. And you already gave me time to myself yesterday evening, there's little need for more."

"There's always a need for just rewards. Now sit."

Seeming as though she didn't quite know what to do with herself as she did so, Estrella clasped her hands together in front of her chest, and slowly, delicately perched herself on the very edge of the foot of Elizabeth's bed.

'Good enough,' Elizabeth thought with a little roll of her eyes, then unfolded the letter lock to begin reading.

'Miss Swann— 'The rest you granted me yesterday was one of the most surprising, lavish gifts anyone has ever granted me! I still am not quite sure what I've done to have deserved it! I think myself the most fortunate of maids to be bestowed such kindnesses— especially after I've displayed such poor examples of decorum in my years with you and your father. I cannot thank you enough and hope to continue to satisfy you and your father's expectations &c. 'Estrella Trattles'

The smile she sent Estrella was thrilled. Though thank you notes were standard expressions of etiquette, she couldn't help but feel pleased to have something that might be considered a little token of an early friendship. "Oh, I'm very glad you enjoyed yourself! I've meant every word I've said, Estrella—I'm really the one who should be grateful to you."

Estrella let out a small laugh. "You can be a strange duck, miss. Have you really been so eager to have a listening ear at your disposal, you feel you need to pay more for it?"

Elizabeth's mouth fell open—once again, Estrella seemed to be seeing right through her, and it almost felt unnerving.

But Estrella turned her face towards her and offered a pleasant smile, continuing, "You've been alone a long time, miss—anyone near enough could spot it's toll on you from a mile away, with the way you've had mostly your father's own visitors for company. If you're wanting someone to talk to, you only need ask for it. It's part of why I'm here."

A strange cocktail of reassurance and aggravation settled inside Elizabeth. She was surprised and grateful her servant saw her desire for another friend, but disappointed in the way she seemed to continue to see it only as a job to be filled. In any case, there did not seem to be a way to continue the conversation that didn't feel strained, so she only offered Estrella a polite smile with a nod to signal some of her understanding. Then she turned her attention to folding her letter back up, and holding it out for Estrella to take.

"On my desk, please," she requested.

Then as Estrella hopped back to her feet, and returned to her bustling chores, Elizabeth finished the last dregs of her tea. And she let her eyes wander back to the window, now wishing again for that person so close to her heart and yet so far away, to whom she felt she could say anything and be accepted in full understanding…

"Stripes?" Estrella asked, breaking through her slightly more somber reverie.

Elizabeth turned back her head and eyed the pink-barred sack-backed robe Estrella was holding aloft.

"Fine," she agreed, and took another sip of tea.

Estrella bobbed a quick curtsy, then continued milling and shuffling about the room like a bee buzzing between flowers, preparing Elizabeth's dressing corner, and clearing space at her desk for her morning toilet.

Still conscious of the fatigue weighing over her own body, Elizabeth marveled at her maid's speed and energy. "How do you do it? Tending to all these chores everyday, and rising the following morning as though it were perfectly natural?"

Returning to Elizabeth's bedside, Estrella shot her a look that was a mix of many thoughts, some of which Elizabeth recognized would be impudent for a servant to express out loud.

"It's become natural, miss," she answered simply. Her hand was extended to take back Elizabeth's now-empty tea cup, and set it on the waiting tray. When she turned back around, she offered Elizabeth a genuine smile. "Although, I'll admit I feel a little bit more like a queen these days, sleeping a little later and having my own tea brought to me, like you do."

A little bit of guilt stirred in Elizabeth, as she was struck even more strongly by the silly picture she must've made, complaining how difficult she felt her day would be to Estrella. Estrella, of all people! She'd never thought much on it before. But until this past week, Estrella had been the one who would do exactly as she'd done today, doing Elizabeth the service of waking her with a freshly made cup of tea as early as was needed, despite not receiving that same service for herself. Yes, here she was complaining about the pains yesterday had left on her body—yesterday, which had been filled with revelry rather than work—while Estrella sorted, set, and cleaned every detail of this room which wasn't even her own.

Her little pang of guilt transformed itself into shame, and she let her eyes fall to study the patterns in her wrinkled bedding.

"I must sound like a spoiled child to your ears."

Once again, her maid was gracious, offering only careful reassurances as she began to fold Elizabeth's sheets back, wordlessly encouraging her to finally leave her bed and join the day.

"You'll get better at such things with time, miss. It doesn't get easier exactly, but you'll get stronger, and that's where it evens out."

Though she was reassured, somehow Elizabeth still felt smaller for it.

"Miss Swann, may I introduce you to Missus Thomasin Lancaster?"

Morning preparations passed without much notable difference from old routines. Father was not at breakfast, having already left for business in town with a message for Elizabeth waiting for her on the dining table. There was nothing surprising to it, only a summary detailing the various upcoming appointments and events that she needed to be aware of, and the names of key persons involved. Whatever discussion they were meant to have regarding her midnight detour would likely come later.

But first thing was first. And that first thing eventually led Elizabeth to the carriageway at mid-morning. There she found herself exchanging greetings with a tidy, older woman with a neat and simple wig—the new mansion housekeeper.

Mister Yates was the one guiding the women's coming to acquaintance. And despite the man's stiff and formal mannerisms, Elizabeth found herself barely resisting the impulse to cut off his introductions entirely with the impropriety of a hug. Her excitement to finally receive the reinforcements, the escape she had been craving was nearly overwhelming.

She managed to maintain composure, however, and was well-trained in doing so. So she presented a collected facade as she instead took one of Missus Lancaster's hands.

"It is a genuine pleasure to meet you at last, Missus Lancaster."

The older woman's face revealed many lines of joviality carved around her eyes and mouth, as she replied, "Oh, I assure you the greater pleasure is mine, Miss Swann."

'Seeing as you're holding the keys that will let me out of here, I highly doubt it,' Elizabeth thought to herself, smiling genuinely in return.

With the release of Missus Lancaster's hand, she then took time to introduce the others who had joined the welcome party, standing at attention in their designated places.

"I believe you've met Mister Yates, our steward. He will be able to introduce you to all our staff over the servants' luncheon. This is Mister Anthony Paterson, first footman of the household."

"A pleasure, ma'am," Anthony greeted with a neat bow.

"Likewise."

Elizabeth continued, "This here is my ladies maid, Miss Estrella Trattles. She and Mister Yates will be able to guide you through our schedules and property. Mister Joseph Spotswood, over there, is our groom and head of stables. And then last for now, you may meet our porter, Mister Johannem Willoughby."

Each servant bowed or curtsied, and exchanged their hellos as Elizabeth indicated them with graceful nods of her head or waves of her hand. Missus Lancaster curtsied back, and muttered little "How do you do"s under her breath. It was when Elizabeth indicated to Misters Spotswood and Willoughby that she noted something unspoken seemed amiss between the two of them, who were not as attentive as usual. But being unable to immediately determine the problem, she simply continued with Missus Lancaster's welcome.

Turning her coiffed head back to the housekeeper, she offered another polite smile. "I think, before we meet, it would be best to have you shown to your quarters and granted time to get settled. Mister Paterson will assist you with your things, so you may leave them as they are. Shall we go inside?"

In silent agreement, the group took their turns facing the mansion's main entrance and heading towards its stairs. However, the sound of Mister Willoughby's voice hissing as though caught in an argument caused Elizabeth to pause and turn around. To her surprise, she found the man bent at the waist, arguing just as she'd thought. But with whom he argued she couldn't have expected: there was a child in a wide-brimmed round hat, hissing back at the porter through the bars of the main gate.

What reason would any child have to come all the way up this hill?

"Miss Swann?" Mister Yates called, questioning Elizabeth's halting.

She twirled her head back towards the mansion, where her little team of servants stood waiting for her to lead.

"Actually," she responded slowly, "why don't you take care of the downstairs tour, Estrella? I will meet with the rest of you in the parlor once that's been settled."

No further explanations were offered, but as lady of the house none were needed. Only Estrella took a moment of questioning to dart her eyes around and identify the little happenings at the gate. Seeming to piece things together on her own after only a few seconds' delay, she once again bobbed her knees in acknowledgement of Elizabeth's orders.

"Very well, miss," Mister Yates agreed.

Then the small party of servants led Missus Lancaster into the depths of the main house. Immediately afterward, Elizabeth spun about, then approached the main gate with a speedy clip that scraped across the carriageway gravel.

"Mister Willoughby?" she called, interrupting the heated debate taking place through the bars. "What's happening here?"

Two faces contorted by different forms of exasperation turned in her direction, then dissolved into pictures of cautious relief.

"This little urchin stuck himself to the back of the carriage," Johannem growled, with a thumb pointed sharply at the scowling boy outside the gate. He couldn't have been any older than seven… nine? He was a little scrawny, so in a way it was hard to tell. Something about him seemed familiar… "And now that I've locked him out, he's claiming he's got a message for you. I know about those there scams, though, miss—so you needn't worry yourself over it—"

Elizabeth's heart skipped.

A message? There was no one Elizabeth knew who would send a message by an unofficial errand boy in town. Except…

"Oh, let the poor boy in, Johannem. He's not harming anyone," Elizabeth cut in, and then walked up to the gate herself to fiddle with the latch herself. But even after unlocking it, she couldn't quite get the gate to budge…

"But, miss, that's how they get you—"

"Are you backchatting me, sir?" she asked coolly, stepping back from the gate to place her hands on her hips and disguise her failure to open the gate. Past attempts to escape the mansion had been when she'd been too young and short to reach. She didn't want to waste time appearing foolish while tinkering with it.

Mister Willoughby doffed his hat and bowed his wigged head. "No, miss."

"No," Elizabeth confirmed with authority. Then she waved at the problem latch. "Open the gate."

With his hat slammed back in place, the porter hopped to command. Elizabeth watched as he quickly unfastened the gate's main latch over again, then bent to lift a cane bolt Elizabeth hadn't realized was holding the primary stile in place. Was that new?

The door swung free, and was opened enough for the skinny little boy to slip through its opening and onto the governor's property.

"You say you have a message for me? What sort of message?" Elizabeth wasted no time in demanding, cutting past introductions with her impatience.

The boy clumsily lifted around his hat the sling of a pouch he'd somehow fashioned from a long piece of cloth—an old apron perhaps, which had been rolled into a bit of a tube and was holding something inside its windings.

"Just a letter, ma'am—miss," the boy stammered somewhat breathy. "From Will Turner himself. He told me to give it straight to your hand, no one else's. I promise it's no lie: look!"

After sticking his hand through the loosened folds of his makeshift sling, the boy unveiled two things of note: a letter, fitting the boy's claim, and Elizabeth's forgotten hat from yesterday. Her heart leapt a little at the sight, and she accepted both items with eager, open hands. Just as she suspected before she'd even asked her question, these were most assuredly from Will. His chosen delivery boy was less conventional than usual, the letter's familiar, bold script and the hat proved that his story was true—and Elizabeth doubted Will would intentionally send any thief or con to her father's house.

But why send a letter like this at all, instead of with the regular postman? The only explanation she could think of was that he'd needed his message to arrive before the next scheduled delivery. And he'd never needed something delivered so urgently before…

With her heart beginning to clench with concern, she looked from the letter in her hand back to the scrawny boy. He was no professional, but Elizabeth felt he deserved some payment for his efforts. Especially because he was small, and the hill's road was long. If she was going to send him home, she preferred to do it with at least something in his belly. And a reply for Will in his hand, of course.

With a wave, she signaled Johannem to close the gate.

"Follow me, please."

"Elizabeth— "I am offering you my deepest apologies for the amount of blank space I have left on this page, as well as my purpose in sending it. I know both will be disappointing to you, but I swear to write to you soon, with every oath I truly wish to pledge, in passages so long they will trail off the page. For now, I can only afford to be brief: "A difficult problem has arisen at the smithy that will demand more of my time over the next few days than I anticipated. I cannot elaborate yet, but will do so as soon as I am able. Just know I myself am well, only unfortunately occupied. If you are willing, I request we revisit our plans for meeting later in the week. In doing so, I look forward to it with an anxiousness that shakes my hand in the wanting of words to transcribe it. "Yours, with my apologies, my appreciation, and all my love, as always"

He forgot to sign for whatever reason, but his name was not needed. It was clear the letter came from Will, just as advertised. She was mostly relieved by the letter. Will specified he himself was well, which did much to assuage a small surge of worries that had begun to build in her head over the walk into the house. Yet Elizabeth couldn't deny a sinking feeling of disappointment that started to weigh down her heart.

Just as he'd warned, his message was short—the only one shorter had been his understandably succinct response to the equally short letter she'd sent him in her drunken stupor at the Blackwell's. While she didn't doubt his reasons were legitimate, the unexplained brevity to this "difficult problem" he alluded to filled replaced her old concerns with new ones. Had there been an accident? If so, were there injuries? He claimed he was well, but had Mister Brown been affected? He also seemed to imply he was only unexpectedly busy, and that seemed… odd. He'd never been too busy to write to her at least one whole sheet nearly every day. The only exception had been when she'd taken her holiday…

Well. Life was unpredictable. He'd apologized and promised to write more—that was what mattered. With a promise like that, he was all but guaranteed to devote the quietness of his dinner hour to fulfilling that promise, she was certain. And she wasn't so far gone in love sickness for him that she couldn't wait a few more hours to hear from him again.

She had other things to worry about, didn't she?

After many minutes spent sorting her thoughts, and after composing a reply which made some sense of them all, Elizabeth powdered her letter with pounce. Then bouncing the letter lightly to shift the drying sand around her setting ink, she stared across the dining table. At the opposite end from her the delivery child sat, looking quite tiny with his shoulders barely above the edge of the table, as he leaned back in his chair and munched happily on some bread.

"What is your name?" she asked him.

He tucked his latest, large bite into the pocket of one cheek.

"Denys, ma'am," he managed to pronounce with a small spray of crumbs from the starting 'd.'

She gave him a slightly scolding look, but didn't say anything regarding the mess for now. Instead, she tipped the leftover pounce off her now-dried letter, back into its container

"Denys whom?"

He was chewing again, and this time elected to finish his chewing and swallowing before resuming his speaking. "Denys Hackley, ma'am."

Hackley. That was the name of the laundress Will had spoken of, who lived down the street from the smithy. This likely was one of her two children—the ones he said sang songs outside while he was working. No wonder the boy had been chosen for messenger. He was probably easy to find.

Elizabeth offered Denys a smile, as he reached for his cup of milk and took a long drink.

"And you are a friend of Will's, are you, Master Hackley?"

"No…" the boy breathed dramatically, both to recover his breath from his drinking and to express some type of world-weary emotion known only to children. Then he added in a much sterner voice, "Not anymore, anyway."

"'Not anymore?'" Elizabeth barely resisted a laugh. "What's that supposed to mean? Why not?"

"He's gotten too old," the boy sighed. He tore off another, smaller piece of bread, and popped it into his mouth. He spoke while he chewed, "And even though I'm old too, he won't let me do any of the things I want when I ask for his help."

"Is that so?" she asked, still trying to match his sincerity. "What sort of things?"

He swallowed and shrugged. "Oh, you know… Man things."

"Mm!" She had to fully press her lips together for a moment to avoid laughing aloud outright. Once the urge had passed, she leveled a deeply serious expression and nodded her head. "Yes, 'man things.' Of course. What are 'man things?'"

The young lad's face made a little pout of confused frustration, clearly believing what he was referring to was the common knowledge of everyone.

"Just… man things. You know!" he attempted, then picked and ate another piece of bread. When Elizabeth made no sign of understanding what he was referring to at all, he rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "He makes swords. I know you know that: I've seen you go inside his shop."

Oh, was that all?

Elizabeth nodded. "I have, and should know that, yes. One of them is mine."

The boy froze in the middle of putting another bite of bread into his mouth. His eyes widened, and he knelt in his chair in order to prop himself up higher over the edge of the table, as he cried, "He gave you one?!"

Oh, no. Evidently, she'd struck on a point of contention. Elizabeth had never considered what Will's influence over the children of his neighborhood could be, but thinking back on what their interests had been when they were young, she shouldn't have been surprised.

She once again struggled against the urge to make like of his tiny-big feelings, and simply nodded her answer.

The boy's shocked expression dissolved into one scrunched by outrage. He sat back down on the chair with an upset thump. "That's not fair at all! I keep asking for one but he won't give it to me. I've even promised I'll work for it! How come you get one when I don't?!"

It was getting harder and harder to keep a straight face. She understood the boy's frustration perfectly—after all, she remembered having a conversation shockingly similar to this with her father at one point or another. If she'd been his own mother, maybe she would have considered negotiating with Will for the forging of an unsharpened sword, like they'd used in their little practice duel the other day. Unfortunately for him, she wasn't Denys' mother—she wasn't even his friend, she was a stranger barely making an acquaintance.

So she chose the wiser route of not encouraging the boy's obvious dreams of owning his own blade… Not just yet, anyway. To distract herself from the comedy of the boy's surly face, she picked up her letter and began the work of folding it into its lock.

"Because I'm an adult, I assume," she answered in curt imitation of her father, "and you are not."

He let out an aggravated puff of air in response. "Aye, but you're a…"

Elizabeth paused her folding to pin Denys with a stern look, eyebrows raised high.

'Oh, don't you dare say it! You're too young to already think such things!'

He caught the warning on her look well enough, instead sagging back in his chair with a mutter, "I just think it's unfair."

The understanding she felt for him plucked the heart string in her meant for pity, and her expression melted into something softer.

"It is, isn't it?" she asked quietly.

'You're too young to be thinking those things too…'

A handful of silent minutes passed, with the two of them busying their hands with the tasks before them, while their thoughts took them to separate places. Although his physical resemblance was very different—he was dressed a little finer, and his age was much younger—Elizabeth found herself considering the similarities she saw between Denys and the closest friend of her childhood. It seemed to be the expression on his face, and the way it held something that hinted at a greater determination behind his desire for this elusive weapon the adults kept out of reach.

Was he the same? A boy frightened at a young age by an attack in which he'd been powerless, seeking the power to one day fight back…?

It was these thoughts that led her to asking, while she heated the wax of her seal, "Has anyone ever told you how Will and I met?"

The boy scrunched up his nose in extreme distaste.

Elizabeth did laugh at that—she couldn't help it. "What's the matter? Do you think it'll be mushy?"

"He always gets mushy and boring when he's seen you."

Though she was smiling, Elizabeth shrugged—that was fair. Lovers did as lovers did, and she was fully aware how ridiculous or even obnoxious it could feel to be around anyone recently pricked by cupid's arrow. Estrella's sufferings through her and Will's encounters weren't wholly unique.

"Well, it is very romantic—at least to me," she conceded, dabbing softened wax over the letter lock. "But I don't think it's quite what you're thinking of."

The boy's face now looked skeptical in a way that seemed much older than someone his size should be.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, pulled her seal out of her pocket, and switched tactics.

"On second thought, the story might be a bit too frightening for a wee, little lad like you…"

He sat up on his knees again. "I'm not little!"

"Oh! So you think you can take it?" she goaded.

While he struggled between his distaste to hear a story he thought would be about two lovers—which it was, but not in the usual way—and his offended honor, Elizabeth watched the letter's wax harden to the right consistency for stamping. Eventually, it seemed both hard and soft enough, and she pressed her seal firmly into the wax. Then she looked back up at the boy.

"The sea brought him to me."

The doubt that had been written into his expression wavered for a moment in the face of the obviously enticing mystery this incomplete answer provided.

"It's true! You can ask him yourself when you get back, if you like," she insisted lightly. She blew out her candle and then leaned back in her chair. "We were both close to your age, I'd think. The vessel he'd been crossing on was attacked by the Black Pearl, and utterly destroyed. Her captain had a penchant for blowing the ships he searched to smithereens, you know."

"You saw the Pearl before?" Denys whispered, properly engrossed already.

Elizabeth smirked to herself. 'I knew you'd want to hear this…'

She raised her hand to summon Mister Burley to her, and allow him to take all her writing equipment away. However, the letter she kept upon the table before her.

"I did. We both did. The pirates wanted him, actually—he just didn't know it yet."

Denys' eyes widened at that. "Why did they want him?"

"Will had a secret, special treasure that they wanted. It was a magic treasure. It had been sent to him by a tricky pirate—and they knew he had it," she narrated with a grave theatricality approximating old Mister Gibbs.

Elizabeth was not worried about hiding the terrors of the Black Pearl. She knew children loved being a little frightened—she had loved it, anyway. Now, this tale had a particularly tantalizing layer of believability for the lad: it was about real pirates he had seen chasing after a real boy he now knew. And with the way he was now starting to lean forward in his chair, it was obvious he was more than happy to eat the story up.

"Magic?" he whispered. "What sort of magic?"

"Cursed magic. It could make you live forever… but only in suffering. They were always hungry, because they could never eat anything! All their food turned to ash when they tried to eat it. And they couldn't feel nice things anymore like soft beds or the warm sun by the shore—sometimes only things that hurt them, like cuts and burns and bruises."

Denys volunteered more ideas, clearly already fairly captivated by this idea, "Like from swords and guns?"

"Or knocking their knees and stubbing their toes. That doesn't sound very nice does it?"

"But what if a cannon shot their head off? How could they stay alive without no head?"

Elizabeth found herself suppressing another laugh. This was supposed to be a gruesome detail, yet it quickly was becoming its own morbidly fascinating topic for the boy. "The magic put them back together."

"Would they feel if they got eaten by a shark?" he gasped, standing on his knees with excitement. "Or a crocodile?!"

"I don't know—it might be gruesome either way," she answered, no longer capable of holding back her laughs. "The point is they didn't like living like that very much. They wanted to get to live a nice life again, not a painful one. And to do that, they needed to get the magic treasure and put it back where they found it. So they began to chase Will in England."

"Why didn't he give them the treasure?"

"They didn't tell him why they wanted it, they only chased after him. Pirates are like that, sometimes. Now stop interrupting, or else I'll stop telling you what happened."

He caught himself right before protesting back, then with a bit of a pout dropped back into his seat to listen more patiently.

She shook her head to herself, then went on with the tale, "They were hunting his treasure, but Will didn't know it yet. He only knew it was special, and wanted to keep it. His mum was already dead, and couldn't protect him—he was alone and scared from the pirates chasing him. But he knew his father was somewhere out here, working in the Caribbean. So, he decided to try and run away from the pirates. But they were smart—they found his name in the ship's manifests at the docks. Then they followed his ship and attacked her! Will survived by a miracle."

"Like angels?" Denys interjected, more cautiously than before.

"Who knows? Perhaps!" Elizabeth responded. "By another miracle, our ships crossed paths. I saw him lying on his back, floating adrift in the ocean waves on a broken piece of his ship, and the crew pulled him out of the water. I helped keep watch over him, while he recovered from the attack. We became fast friends on the rest of the journey here."

She let that arc of the story sit with Denys for a while, who looked thoughtful and was picking at his bread again.

Eventually he confessed, "I thought you were going to say something else, like my aunt's silly love stories…"

Elizabeth smiled, ready to reveal the trick behind her telling: "It is a love story. I loved him right away, and he's told me he felt the same."

"You said you were friends," he insisted back, a little defensive.

"Well, being friends can mean many things, as you get older. Friends can love each other without being in love, just like family should love each other. We have different parts of our hearts we can give to people for different reasons. That's a truth," Elizabeth tried to explain, while drawing her chair back and rising from the table—doing her best to conceal her winces of pain in the process. She walked to Denys' side of the table, and gingerly took a seat across the corner from him as she continued to explain. "But sometimes friends love each other both ways—and that's what happened to us. Will was my friend whom I've played with—I've always loved him with that part of my heart. However, it wasn't too long before I realized that I love him with the rest of my heart too. So he's my most special friend, out of all the friends I'll ever have."

The lad looked a little unconvinced still, with his lips pursed to one side and eyes narrowing with doubts. There was a chance he was losing interest in the story.

She tried another argument: "Sometimes love is a quiet thing, like in those other stories you mentioned. Those ones might sound silly to you, because they're a little boring when you're small. But love doesn't have to be only quiet things. To me, it has always been a grand, romantic adventure. Will and I have battled pirates for each other, you know. I don't think that's silly at all."

"Hmm…" was his only reply, seeming partially convinced but unwilling to admit to it.

With a little shake of her head, Elizabeth plowed ahead anyway. She was coming to her initial point in telling the boy all this, at last.

"But back then, we were only children. For a while, the pirates chasing Will didn't know where he'd gone, since they sunk his ship and didn't know the Dauntless had found him. So there were real pirates for us to fight yet—we had to make our own adventures, same as anyone," she explained, and saw his attention becoming re-invigorated now that she was once again talking about sea-thieves instead of sentimentalities. "We used to play together any day, any time we could find—sometimes with others, sometimes alone. Our favorite thing to pretend was being pirates, pirate fighters, or explorers. We'd traipse around the bush or beaches and challenge each other to duels with sticks."

"You did that?" Denys asked, now equally surprised and openly skeptical.

"Yes, I did!" she reassured him. "I also wanted a sword very much—a real one. We both did. And, you know, no matter who I asked, no one would give it to me or him. My father forbade it, especially. We tried to borrow some once without asking, and got into an awful lot of trouble for it. I thought it was so unfair, just like you."

As she spoke, recognition lit Denys eyes and dissipated his doubts about her, at last. More than if she'd simply told him, "I understand," he knew she empathized with his plight. He looked pleasantly surprised, maybe even a little hopeful. For a moment. Then he dropped his eyes to his plate with a surly, defeated look on his face.

"You're going to tell me that Will and my mum are right, aren't you?"

She offered him a sympathetic smile, even though he was no longer looking at her.

"They are a little. As it would happen, it turns out swords are pretty dangerous," she admitted. Then she scooted her chair just a little closer to his corner of the table, trying to be conspiratorial. "But you know… I also know a little bit of what it's like to want something like that so badly. Will grew up, and he got to become swordsman, like he always wanted. But I grew up, and my swords were taken away. Nearly everyone still told me I mustn't and couldn't touch swords, because they were not meant for me."

"Well, it's different, because you're a lady."

Elizabeth sat up straight and openly scoffed at that, "So?"

Yet again she found herself wondering with some distress how one so young could already be falling for the traps of their society's written and unwritten rules—that he could already believe that for one group of people being barred from the freedom to fight was an injustice, while for others it was simply a fact of life. Yet Denys did look at her as if, again, she was missing something completely obvious about the world.

With a strangely matter-of-fact voice, he explained, "Ladies don't care for swords, unless they mean to commit a murder."

She let out a loud laugh at that.

"Isn't that true of everyone?" came her incredulous question. "A sword is a weapon—that's what it's there for!"

"Not always!" he argued back.

"Well, what do you want it for?" she challenged.

He'd already opened his mouth to tell her before he stopped himself. Then with his eyes cast away, Denys muttered, "I can't tell. You'll tell my mother."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes so hard it moved her head. This child!

"Why would I? I hated people telling on me—I still do. Besides, I don't know your mother, do I?"

The boy's narrowed eyes made it clear that, even after her luncheon and stories, he still didn't trust her. Perhaps her reminder of how much of a stranger she actually was to him had been the wrong point to make.

Even so, now that she sat facing him with prejudices infancy, Elizabeth felt she could not be deterred by him. She wasn't even entirely sure why, perhaps it was the affronted little girl she had once been, crying out in protest, wanting to be heard. She didn't need to be his friend, exactly—that wasn't quite her goal, as he was still a young lad, and she had no need to be more than a friendly acquaintance to other people's children. But she would like to be the reason his little judgmental scowls were banished, the reason he could start to see past the old-fashioned notions that people around him were already driving into his head…

"Here."

She held out her reply letter for him to take, then worked her coin purse free from her pocket. Loosening the pouch's strings, she began fishing out her desired proper coinage.

"This is for Will's letter:" she set down three pence—twice the rate for a single sheet in Port Royal, seeing as they lived atop the hill. The boy's eyes brightened and blinked with surprise.

"This is for mine:" she laid down three more, and his eyes widened.

"And this is for my hat:" she laid down a bonus tip of two final pennies, and his mouth fell open.

"That's the same as a sixpence, just for you," she verbally dangled before his nose. It was a small fortune for a boy his age. Without blinking, the boy nodded and reached his hand in the direction of his payment. Before he could touch them, Elizabeth blanketed the coins with her hand, blocking them from his access and his sight. It was only after he looked at her with confusion in his eyes that she explained, "… but only if we come to a bargain. Or an agreement, rather."

All prior insubordination had evaporated—the boy was now looking at her with rapt attention. It wasn't the way she wanted it, but if money got her foot in the door of respect, then money would be her starting tactic.

She continued, "First: you don't tell anyone about my sword secrets, and I won't tell anyone about yours. If I hear anyone else talking about my secrets, your mother will know yours, I promise you."

His brow started to bend with intense concentration. "Alright," he agreed.

"And second: Will and I love to speak with each other very much, so these letters are extra important. We may write to each other quite a lot in the coming days—you could have another sixpence tomorrow, and turn your coins into a shilling, if you're lucky…"

The boy's eyes widened at that prospect.

"If you're a good lad and able to continue helping us, if you keep our secrets, and if you can control the urge to question me and my swordplay, there's a chance I can convince Will to allow you to be our courier again in the future. With enough deliveries, perhaps eventually you'll be able to 'persuade' him to get you that sword of yours sooner than you think. Do we have a deal?"

She finally removed her hand from the table, allowing the coins to shine under Denys' nose once again.

"Lovanenty!" was all he gasped, with stars in his eyes. "I hope Will keeps courting you for a long, long time!"

The rest of Elizabeth's day passed in alternating trickles and spurts. Going into the afternoon, young Mister Hackley was sent home with one of the kitchen maids already scheduled to go out on errands. After tea, the servant's luncheon, and two hours of letter writing, Elizabeth finally hosted the first weekly household meeting in over two months. In the parlor, Mister Yates and Mister Posey, the mansion's man cook, had joined for their regular attendance. Missus Lancaster and Estrella joined them for the first time.

In addition to reviewing the week's day to day meals, there were four upcoming events to plan, two small and two large:

First, father had invited members of his council to dinner on Friday—only three days away. It would be a small gathering largely focused on routine business. So, aside from confirming which council members would be absent, all that needed to be established was the drinks, menu and small adjustments to the table setting. She thought flowers from the garden, seasonal fruit from the market, and roast duck would all do perfectly well for such an occasion—Mister Posey agreed.

Simple.

Second in line was a dinner scheduled for early next week—the first of many dinners hosting the electors of Jamaica's parishes, beginning with the four most populous and powerful. Though also fairly straight forward, this dinner involved a larger, more sensitive guest list and a window of time for planning that was still very narrow. Fortunately, Elizabeth had an even simpler solution here: she assigned Missus Lancaster her first task of finding a room at the Blue Anchor or another reputable tavern in town, to take care of entertaining the party in question. No decorations, no meal plans, no seating arrangements to fret over—just a tavern. And while father and the tavern's staff arbitrated the petty squabbles of his drunken, stupid nemeses with as much rum and port as the establishment could pour, she could stay home that evening with nothing but her own private worries to fret over.

Easy.

The third event was the first major one to worry about—it was the annual ball of the King's birthday, to be held at Fort Charles. Planning for this had begun weeks before the Black Pearl's attack on Port Royal. Thanks to her determination to ignore everything related to it, time had snuck up on her, and it was with some alarm that Elizabeth calculated the ball was now only seventeen days away. Fortunately, Mister Yates had seen to it that preparations continued uninterrupted during her absence. He had already sought out candidates for supplying the night's food, entertainment, decorations and general service—many of them simply business contacts from past events. All Elizabeth needed to do was review their quotes, and instruct Missus Lancaster on how she would like them finalized.

Painless… mostly.

She found herself suppressing multiple yawns as she listened to, negotiated through, and recorded the final punctuations to the party's plans. The lazy afternoon sun had formed a conspiracy with her boredom, physical ailments, and night of poor sleep to cast over her a deep spell of drowsiness. It was all formalities. If she were honest, she didn't care at all what the guests ate, or what time they toasted goddamn King and Country. She only cared that the few persons she liked didn't starve or choke, and that the rest of the lot didn't burden her with further social ailments before she could escape their clutches.

But she had made it three quarters of the way through her backlog of plans—she was determined to persist through the final, most demanding one:

"We must set in motion the plans for this year's Christmas Masque," she declared, almost more to herself than to the group around her.

In a renewed effort to sharpen her attention, she turned and took a little walk about the edges of the room, running her hand over the polished lid of the harpsichord as she passed it. She was tempted to play.

Ever prepared, Mister Yates was able to flip open his own ledger and withdraw another small stack of leaflets. He held these up for Elizabeth to take as she passed behind his chair in her walk about the room.

"I've collected some quotes for that as well, based on last year's plans and attendance," he assured with an observable note of pride. "Of course, much could change this year, considering the circumstances of the port's recovery."

"Mm," Elizabeth hummed in partial agreement as she shuffled and skimmed through the proposals. "I'm certain the arrival of Dandridge's fleet will have already begun its impact on the entire harbor."

"Too soon, I wager," Missus Lancaster surmised. "With the commodore's absence filled, business will be watched more closely again, and we'll be paying for it quite literally in no time."

Though she kept walking, Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in some surprise. Perhaps she had gotten ahead of herself with her assumptions, but upper-ranked servants she'd encountered in the past had nearly all endeavored to present themselves as loyal citizens of the Crown. In Missus Lancaster's tidy appearance, Elizabeth had spied a mind of the same, overtly patriotic opinions regarding the navy's influence over their prized port. To hear something so opposite in a semi-formal setting like this ran completely contrary to what the housekeeper's image had led her to assume.

She was not alone in her reaction. The other servants looked at Missus Lancaster with similar expressions taken aback in small degrees.

Mister Yates bristled and tutted. "Meager sums for the sake of our security, I should say."

"You say now," Missus Lancaster answered, further inflaming the argument by paying greater attention to the state of her cuticles than Mister Yates' expressions. "Guarding the reach of the trading companies will close far more doors than it opens—mark my words."

"Whatever the prices will be is nothing compared to what another raid would do to our economy, not to mention the well-being of our citizens," snapped back Mister Yates.

Now Elizabeth frowned. He would believe that, now more than ever. In addition to her own kidnapping, his underling, Mister Withers, had been the footman shot dead at the mansion's door by the Black Pearl's crew. Whether or not Missus Lancaster was aware of how close the recent staff's losses had come from the pirates' raid was not known—if she did, it would be easy to say she was being somewhat indelicate.

The woman did not apologize, only continuing to eye her nails while making a face that seemed to indicate she quietly disagreed.

Mister Posey coughed to himself, but otherwise no one made any additional comment in return.

Why did Elizabeth sense tension here already, a feeling that something else was going on here than the current conversation spoke of outright? Had there been a larger political disagreement at luncheon? Or something else entirely? Elizabeth sent a confused look towards Estrella, whom she found with her lips pressed tightly together, eyes widened in a soundless, awkward laugh over the turn the conversation had taken.

She sighed to herself. Mediating interpersonal setbacks between incoming staff of this rank was not something she had anticipated in the slightest. Stewards and housekeepers were well-trained and highly experienced. Breaches of conduct such as this were practically unheard of.

"Whatever the case may be," she cut back in, eying Missus Lancaster as she came to stand in front of the unlit fireplace, "we're only one month away from the festival. In addition to everything else, the attack put us off pace from finalizing the theme—as well everything that follows after."

"Oh, your father has already made a selection for this year's proposed theme," Mister Yates reassured her, seeming eager to join the change of subject. He gestured to the small stack of letters in Elizabeth's hand. "I noted it in my correspondences with the affected business partners. Their prices already have that in mind, so you do not need to concern yourself with it over much."

Elizabeth frowned at that.

Then she frowned deeper at her own frown.

She knew she didn't have much justification in frowning at Mister Yates. If anything, it ought to have been a relief that he and father had kept things in motion while she remained in a sort of avoidant deadlock. What else was the household supposed to do, when she'd refused to even hear passing discussion on the topic? Wait forever? Of course not! The world turned with or without her involvement. And for the past few weeks she'd been perfectly happy to simply let it do so.

However, her manner of avoiding her duties meant that she'd also avoided all thought about them, whenever possible. As such, it was only now occurring to her that this Christmas masque could be the last one she would ever plan for her father. More than that: it could also be the first and last one she would get to share with all her friends, her father, and her chosen future husband, all together at once.

She felt an unexpected, fleeting pang of sadness. The festivities around twelfth night were her father's favorite of the year, and the masque in particular was one of the few upper class events she also genuinely enjoyed. She had many fond memories of them together in the past…

Yes, there would be other balls in days and years to come. And of course, if things went as hoped, there would be her own wedding party to consider next year—she would be deeply shocked if all persons in question weren't in attendance there. But a wedding was a wedding, and a masque was a masque. Not only did she already know she would be making many compromises to keep father placated with her nuptials, she was certain she would be very differently occupied on her wedding day.

Few things in Port Royal held the same free and festive energy as this specific costumed gala. Attendance was open to wider swaths of Port Royal's citizenry, with aspects of the revelry often bleeding out into festival grounds on the very streets, into the harbor. The costumes hid and revealed all dancers in attendance, and certain rules changed entirely. Class, rank, sex, animal, mineral, vegetable and anything between—none of the regular distinctions behind any of their overly structured lives mattered on this night, only the sparks of creativity on display. Adding in the overflow of good food and drink and music…

It would be the perfect setting to let her past and future worlds properly collide for the first time. The chance to experience it with this specific collection of her loved ones felt singular in a way she doubted would ever happen again. A poor theme for this potentially once-in-a-lifetime night would simply not do.

So it was with some cautious hesitation that she questioned, "And what would that theme be, Mister Yates?"

"Great Britain," Mister Posey interjected in a bored, drawling voice.

Despite Mister Yates' pleased grin, Elizabeth barely resisted the roll of her eyes.

It was clear her disappointment was still able to be noted in spite of her efforts, thanks to the slipping of her steward's smile. Ah, she hadn't meant to insult him—but it was too late now.

She sighed, "That's it? Great Britain? Nothing more specific?"

There was a flash of an amused smirk on Estrella's face in the corner of her eye, hastily transformed under something closer to her more professional stoicisms. Elizabeth pressed her lips together to better restrain herself further humiliating Mister Yates with her amusement.

"Well…" the steward began to stammer, "we figured it would give attendees a wide and easy berth in their choices. They could dress as the flag or a country shepherd or the Cliffs of Dover—"

"Yes, yes," she sighed and waved the papers in her hand dismissively. "I understand the intention. But these are all the things we're already dressing up as everyday, to begin with. What's the point of a masque where everyone dresses the same as they always do?"

Mister Yates' thin lips wavered back and forth between frowns of disagreement and trained expressions of calm deference. He settled on the latter, offering a careful smile with his return pitch, "Well, there could be more than that—that's the beauty of it! King Arthur and his knights in armor! Lions and roses and… and Shakespeare—"

"And that's not even Great Britain, that's just England!" Elizabeth groaned, with an exasperated wave of her hand. "For godsakes, Mister Yates, last year we figured out how to bring about visions of a white winter to the Caribbean! Don't you not remember? This is Christmas, not the King's second birthday! I do not approve! We're changing it."

She knew she was probably being a bit unfair with this late change, after all the effort he and her father had put into arranging everything for her to take the reins with minimal turbulence. But plans were not yet final, and she doubted her change would alter the proposals from their partners all that much.

Still, he wanted to scoff—she could sense it, even though his face and voice maintained a perfect picture of acquiesence. He smiled again, with carefully trained politeness. "To what will it be changed, Miss Swann?"

"Birds!" Mister Posey suggested with surprising speed—Elizabeth's answer had barely perched upon her teeth when he'd cried it out.

She shot him a perplexed but amused look. "We chose birds the year before last year, Mister Posey, I'm sorry. I know you were not yet with us then to participate."

"Then why not the sea?" Estrella suggested next, with an all too knowing smile.

Elizabeth returned her grin. She would love an excuse to play pirates with Will and her friends, and knew that was the card Estrella was dealing for her. "Unfortunately, that was also done three years ago."

"Beasts, then," Mister Posey countered.

Elizabeth shot him another bemused look—he really seemed set on a theme involving animals. Perhaps for easy themed dishes?

"I'm sorry, but no," she responded.

Her eyes fell upon the door to her father's study, an idea struck her. Crossing the parlor in a brisk rustle of skirts, she opened father's door and stuck her head inside the room. Then reaching to her right, she was able to pluck from a shelf one of father's many books—which one it was didn't matter this time, only that she had one to show. Then she slipped back out of the study, holding the tome up in an almost triumphant posture over her head.

"We'll focus on a theme of storytelling."

"Storytelling?" multiple members of the group echoed together, in a symphony of different tones.

Elizabeth ran her focus across each servant's carefully maintained expression, before answering with a bright, "Yes!"

While the others in the group seemed more curious than anything else, Mister Yates seemed unconvinced. To those who did not know him, his expressions seemed unchanged from before—controlled and blank. But to Elizabeth's accustomed eye there was a tightness in his lips and brow that belied hidden protestations, subtle doubts in her impulsive decisions.

With her eyes fixed on the creases frame the elder man's frown like parenthesis, she crossed back to the center of the room, shaking the book with building rushes of enthusiasm. "Myths, legends, poetry! And not just for Arthur or Macbeth—let people draw from any fairy tale or nursery rhyme they've heard from anywhere. Let them be more than just lions. Let them be the sphinx or fairies or … they could dress like the Christmas Star or their own mothers for all I care. It doesn't matter, so long as it's something, anything that lets them tell each other stories!"

She tossed the book onto the end table nearest Mister Yates' chair. Now she could see which one she had chosen: 'Aeropagitica.' She drew the insides in between her teeth—there was little to no story to glean from that little book. Still, she hoped as he plucked it up from the end table, the man could maintain some focus on the intended illustrations of her point.

He looked over the cover page idly. "And how does one decorate for that, Miss Swann?"

"We use our imaginations, Mister Yates," she replied as coolly as she could manage—though for a moment, she had to restrain her breath behind grit teeth as she took a seat back on her chosen couch. "I'm certain there are plenty of fanciful uses for ribbons and flowers we have not yet thought of, considering the illusions the town's craftsmen achieved last year…" On the spot, another idea struck her as she watched Mister Yates turn the narrow little book about in his hands. Her lips twitched upward. "We could have attendees enclose the stories behind their costumes with their responses to our invitations—then we could commission the printing of little booklets we give out as favors at supper."

"I like that!" Estrella chimed happily at that. "What a nice little memento it could make! If you left blank pages, people could record their own stories from the ball—like a little journal just for that night."

Elizabeth grinned widely, feeling her mind brighten behind her eyes with shared vision they were beginning to collectively weave through their imaginations. She could see it now: each disguised guest at the ball carrying in their pockets a little book with pieces about themselves hidden in their masks and metaphors.

"People could read the stories together, and make games of guessing the identities of different authors from across the room," she mused aloud. "They could chatter over the best stories, surprise each other with their revelations, and possibly even compose new ones with friends in the moment. And if we hire the right artists, people could choose to have portraits sketched into the backs of their books, like little illustrations…"

"Oh, I've never had a portrait before…" Estrella sighed longingly.

Missus Lancaster had her own suggestion to add in a low, calm voice, "If you wished it, miss, you could hire a troupe or two to act out renditions of the various stories people choose to share."

"Yes!" Elizabeth almost leaped up to agree—warning flares in her thighs prompted her to remain perched on the settee's cushions, but the energy of their ideas scooted her towards their edge. "And perhaps we could find a way for people to create their own smaller performances with their costumes! Like pantomimes or charades!"

"Oh, no-no-no!" Mister Yates gasped at that. "The pretenses of the stage aren't meant for decent folk, Miss Swann. It'd cause you and your father a scandal to have people—"

She narrowed her eyes with her deadpanned annoyance, "It's a masque, Mister Yates. Everybody's already performing for each other, whether on stage or not. Don't be old fashioned."

The man cocked an offended eyebrow and shifted about in his chair. "Begging your pardon, Miss Swann, but that is not the way all will take it."

"Not all will have ever taken it the same way to begin with—they never have," Elizabeth retorted immediately and sharply, feeling quite as though she were debating with her father's shadow. "The ones who care enough to protest it never attend. And the ones who do attend are never concerned with avoiding the affairs of 'indecent folk'—they're always too busy with their own affairs to begin with."

After a moment's stare, Mister Yates smiled and dipped his head in acknowledgement of her authority. Though he could offer his protests, in the end he was paid to serve her wishes regardless of opinion. But opinion he could still offer:

"I only think it unwise, miss. And I'm certain your father will agree. That is all I will say."

"I'm not certain it matters, considering this event has always been my jurisdiction." Elizabeth rolled her eyes to herself. "But if it will comfort you, he'll be home at any moment. We may seek his input on the matter. Until then, this is what I've decided, and I will accept no further critiques on the matter. I do not need it. What I do need is drafts of the announcement prepared for the printer."

While Mister Yates nodded, Elizabeth held out the stack of leaflets for Missus Lancaster's taking.

"Missus Lancaster will send confirmations to begin booking the decorators. Mister Posey, if you wouldn't mind overseeing the coordination of the catering, I would appreciate it deeply."

Steward, housekeeper, and cook each bowed their heads and muttered their acknowledgments of their orders. Elizabeth nodded back, satisfied. The wheels were pointed in the right direction. Now all they needed was the beginning push:

"What do you all think of Paradise Lost?"

Elizabeth felt far lighter than she had expected, as the weight of her burdens were already beginning to lift from her shoulders. Estrella's teas had weakened the aching of her body, and Missus Lancaster's ready experience and surprisingly open mind had loosened the grip of her overtightened responsibilities. She was able to straighten her back to look into the future with some excitement.

Even so, the day had been both longer and quicker than Elizabeth had expected. Her meetings had stretched like the sun's shadows, while her glances at the clock made time's hands skip ahead hours at a time instead of seconds, or even minutes. Dinner passed. Father stayed out. She remained in, restless by the end of it all. And running her fingers over the letter she'd received earlier in the day, she found herself sorely tempted to order a horse prepared, to make her way into town, his opinions be damned.

There'd been no other letter for her, when the kitchen maid had returned from her errand. And though Elizabeth was aware how silly it was, it left her with a sharp sting of disappointment.

Again.

She and Will had been together all weekend—by all accounts, she knew she ought to be satisfied with that. Yet in the midst of several minutes, all she could think about was how he'd promised that he'd write more. Granted, he'd only promised he would write soon—the notion that that meant today had been her own assumption. So she knew he would still keep his word, even if it had to wait until morning. Will always kept his word. Yet it had been hours and hours since his morning's missive—the rest of the entire day, in fact. And she simply could not shake the thought that something truly important to share would have taken his attention for that one hour he walked away from his forge.

The stings of her disappointment grew cold, then wadded up into a chilly ball in the pit of her stomach, as her early concerns and wonderings ran through her mind over again. What was this "difficult problem" he had, so concerning that he could not even write to her one meager page…?

It was the brush of her father's hand upon her back that startled her back to the dusky atmosphere within her room.

When she looked at him, his hat and coat had already been doffed, and the smile he offered was small, tired, but full of warmth.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he offered. "I did not realize you were so lost in your thoughts."

She smiled back, and accepted the squeeze of his soft hand, outstretched in greeting. "I didn't hear you come in. Have you been here long?"

"Not at all. We only just returned." After a kiss to her hair, he slipped his hand free and gestured at the armchair tucked beside her drawing room's private entrance. "May I?"

She nodded her answer: of course.

They hadn't even seen each other for the entirety of the day. He likely had things to say, if not about last night then certainly about the business they both had conducted. There'd been much to tend to for each of them. And Elizabeth couldn't help but hope that perhaps there was a chance that his occupations had pushed thoughts of her mischief from her father's mind for now. Perhaps his mind could be filled with thoughts of ships and highways and state coffers. She doubted it. But there was always a chance she could intentionally avoid the topic if she played her cards right…

When he grunted a hitched breath on his way down into the chair, she couldn't wholly suppress the laugh of familiarity that broke across her face—a genuinely sympathetic grin.

"And what's that look for?" father pressed with a bemused chuckle, interrupted by his shifting to un-tuck the tails of his spring colored coat.

Elizabeth offered him a small shrug, her lips still pulled tight by the curve of her amusements. "That's not too different from sounds I've been making today. I didn't realize I've felt like an old woman, I suppose."

"I prefer the term, 'mature,' if you would be so kind," he quipped, with only the barest hint of sarcasm.

The lightheartedness of his joke rang clear to Elizabeth's familiar ears, and she returned his teasing. "Oh, of course, my apologies. I've felt mature and fully in my prime, aching joints notwithstanding."

"Quite so!" he laughed with her, and the mingling of the sound drew their hearts together.

It was as Elizabeth was just beginning to marvel at how refreshingly light both their moods seemed to be again, just as she was beginning to believe that she had, in fact, somehow avoided confronting more of father's chastisements, that she noticed his smile begin to falter ever so slightly. Her hopes began to slip with it.

Caring remained strong in his expression, as well as calm. But fresh lines of concern began to draw themselves around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. "And what is it that has pained you so, if I may ask?"

Her mind froze for half a moment, somewhat taken aback by the question.

Yesterday, she had successfully hidden her pains from him, even after the slip up with Will's loaned shirt. Yet in the swirling flow of her thoughts and the too-long missed sweetness of her father's small talk, she had temporarily forgotten about keeping their secret. The wrong answer had nearly slipped past her lips, coming so close to an untimely revelation of their dueling lessons.

It was the surprise of the question that saved her in the end, stopping her just long enough to catch said answer between her teeth before it could escape ahead of her thoughts. Once her mind had caught up to her, she recalled the story she and Will had told father the previous evening: a little blacksmithing practice, and that was all.

She was able to shrug again, presenting unruffled nonchalance as best she could. "Just a little sore from my activities with Will yesterday, that's all."

Father nodded twice sagely. "Your 'activities' at the grindstone, you mean?"

This time the icy surprise that took her froze her body in place as well.

Shit. Just as she'd suspected, the picture of half-truths she was weaving had already grown messy, and he'd seen through the flimsiness of her excuses, could very well detect the shapes of the things she was trying to hide behind it all. But how much could he see? He wasn't stupid—in his questions she could hear the wheels turning in his mind, could sense him sorting through her puzzle's most mismatched pieces. While she was certain he didn't know the truth yet, it was understood by her that, with his intuitions, perhaps he didn't immediately need to.

She cautiously admitted as little as she could in her hesitant response, "Among a few other things, yes."

A smothering silence fell over them, allowing those other things unsaid by her answer to take on shapes neither of them were altogether happy with.

Then he pointed to it more outright, the flaw in her story, hanging embarrassingly low over their heads: "… I was not aware that sharpening blades could be so taxing upon one's legs."

Drawn into a restless fidget, Elizabeth folded the letter in her hands back up and tapped it against her desk.

"Oh, I don't believe it is, actually," she answered, and tried to look at her father as though nothing was wrong—that she had no worries, because their story was as true as she'd told it.

But inside, her mind was in a rush, working to find a strategy to save her secret from her father's astute observations. She needed to cover the holes in her story with things believable—things he'd seen, if possible. What else had she and Will engaged in yesterday, besides their exchanges in the smithy? They'd taken the carriage into town and back again, so she couldn't pretend that an overlong walk was to blame for her leg's ailments. No, they'd practiced at their sword, and they'd talked and changed clothes, and then they'd ridden home. Once here, they'd done nothing that could be called strenuous or demanding. Except…

She would have to try it. It was another weak argument, but it was worth more than nothing.

With her expression almost stubbornly sunny, Elizabeth attempted a laugh. "But racing up staircases and other inclines when you've grown so lazy and unprepared for it—I believe that is another story!"

The rise of father's eyebrows implied he was less than impressed with her attempted deception.

"I see," father said flatly.

For another long, wordless moment, that was all that was said. But she knew this wasn't the true end of the conversation—only that he too was mulling over his words, crafting his questions for her as carefully as she was her answers. This most certainly was not meant to be an idle conversation about what they'd done over the course of the day.

She watched him take a deep breath, observably steeling himself. "You were… rather rambunctious yesterday."

Here it was, after all: her admonishment—albeit for a different part of the day than she expected he wished to discuss. She had to laugh a little, both in memory of the silly scramble she'd taken with Will up the stairs, and also at herself for having dared to hope that she had somehow gotten away with her schemes. What a good thing it was that she was well practiced in defending her whims and wiles in the face of father's frequent paternal judgments.

"I suppose we were, yes," she admitted lightly. It made no sense to deny what he'd seen and heard, anyway. But she looked at him with a challenging rise in her eyebrow, again refusing to act out any part of shame. "Are you meaning to imply that is a problem?"

She heard a subtle tut as father opened his mouth to reply. But he paused when another thought visibly crossed his mind, then closed his mouth again with a shake of his head.

The look he gave her was both sharp and weary, indicating he knew that she knew more than she was pretending to misunderstand. "You're both a bit too old for that sort of thing, don't you think?"

"I should hope not!" she scoffed readily. After all the compromises she and Will had already begun to make, this was one territory in her relationship she was prepared to protect with teeth bared. "Will and I have always played together in unorthodox ways. My hope is we always will."

With mounting frustration, Elizabeth watched as the lines of worry deepened in her father's face, and he traced them over with fretful fingers. Though he said nothing in reply, he sighed deeply.

That was their problem now—he was saying nothing, expecting her to read between the lines, despite so very obviously having something very specific he did wish to say. She could do it if she wanted to—she was used to speaking and deciphering this strange political code of allusions and unspoken truths. In fact, she had a feeling she knew very much exactly what he was speaking about, despite his refusals to say it. But she had no patience for it lately. His qualms about her relationship with Will were many, she knew it. Hinting and sighing would not help bring their different views into alignment. For as much as he did not say he could deny believing—to her as much as to himself.

Plain language—that's what the world needed more of.

So she pressed her father gently, "What is it, really?"

Again, nothing. For seconds upon seconds, there were only extended attempted readings of each other's thoughts and feelings from faces growing dimmer and dimmer in the evening's creep. The mood was strange, quiet and absent of the combative flares that had strained their conversations lately, yet still balancing precariously on the cusp of their not yet pronounced disagreement. Each word they spoke threatened to push the state of their feelings over, to let it strike the ground and add another chip in the face of the bond they shared with each other.

At last, father dropped his gaze.

"It isn't anything truly significant," he dismissed slowly. Then he took a deep breath, and began to trace his fingers over the floral patterns on the chair's upholstered arm. "I only hope… that you are taking care of yourself when you are with him, Elizabeth. That is all."

Elizabeth's lips parted—this was not exactly the direction she'd expected their conversation to turn, but she could now clearly spy where it was headed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean…" he began, then faltered.

The nothing was back, keeping that something he wished to actually say hovering in the air, unspoken. It set her teeth on edge.

'Just say it. Admit it out loud.'

He stilled his hand, then looked at her again with a tense smile. "Well. You know what I mean."

She did. It was a vague insinuation, but she understood his meaning fully: Will was a threat to her honor, not only through his demoting her to a lower social station, not only through his removing her from her wealth and prosperity, but through his potentially stealing her perceived "virtue" from her bed before the time deemed decent. That was the meaning of the moment.

She knew why he implied such things, especially after the hubbub she'd caused the night before, after what he seemed to have heard in church, after what he'd watched the ways she touched Will and he touched her.

But what purpose or benefit was there in considering Will in such a way?

Even if there were truth to the rumors of their intimacies, what would it truly matter in the end? Some men were rascals, it was true—there were many men who would love a woman while it was blissful and free, and then run away once difficulties rose up or money was spent, once the fun was sullied and sundered. But Will was not some beguiling stranger she had only just met, casting spells of seduction on her jaded mind and hungry heart. She knew him long and well—father knew him, even if it was less well. And what had Will ever done to give any impression that he had anything but honest love and the best intentions for her in his mind and heart? He was a man both of iron works and iron words, never once having broken a promise or oath to her, even when it did not suit him. They were to be married—she absolutely hellbent on it, and knew with absolute certainty Will felt just as strongly, absolutely. Loving his body now or later made such little difference in the grander scheme of things, knowing that. Their vows were already carved in their hearts, the weave of their dreams already started to be knit together into a single, shared work of wonder.

So he'd committed a handful of petty crimes once or twice—what did that matter? Hadn't everyone done a little wrong here or there in their lives? Besides, even in his vagrancy, his purpose had been to save innocent lives, most notably her own. There'd been no malice or selfishness in any of his actions, only honor. Father had seemed to understand that, the day Jack had been set free.

Yet even if Will hadn't rebelled with such faultless intentions, ultimately his record of piracy had nothing to do with how he treated her every living day. In his presence, Elizabeth had never once felt she needed to "take care of herself" to begin with. The very idea that Will would ever sweep a single hair on her head in a direction she did not wish it to go was well past laughable. If anything, the greatest risk he'd ever posed to her was of standing too still from worrying over her wants, when she really needed him to simply run with her. And thankfully, that stagnant habit seemed to have become something he was quickly learning to leave in the past.

Still, father cared about what the world saw and thought.

And the world saw a man who angrily threw blades through law and order, even as they ignored why he did it. They couldn't, wouldn't see the man who slipped her out from under the noses of her captors, who wrapped her wounds so very gently, who gifted her her own blades with full intentions of teaching her how to use them herself. No, even after all Will had done for her, his persona remained trapped by stereotype and shaky impressions, unyielding and ridiculous. It made the hairs on her body bristle.

She knew what father meant. But Elizabeth could not spur herself to conspire against her intended, nor would she willingly breathe life into the words of his accusers. If they wished to judge William Turner on their stringent beliefs, she would not let them hide behind pretended prudence—not even her own father.

So she pretended not to understand—or at least she refused to acknowledge the reality of her understanding. In fact, she looked at him with unblinking eyes, and silently dared him to make his case

Her father sighed, recognizing the move she was playing in this figurative contest which had so spontaneously begun between them.

"Your suitor… Mister Turner, that is, has demonstrated himself a very…" his mouth waved in a moment of awkward hesitation, "… physical man with a spirited heart, not unlike yourself. And you have both demonstrated a certain …" another wavering beat as he cast about for softened words, "… exuberance in your interactions with each other that I question—"

Impatience flared inside Elizabeth! Enough pussyfooting!

"We are not fucking, father," she interrupted firmly.

There. She'd said it. Father could close his eyes and rub his forehead in embarrassment all he liked, but now the topic was in the open for frank, productive discussion.

When he did not yet seem ready to continue on that more direct path of conversation, she spurred it ahead herself, announcing archly, "And Will has not once accosted me with any intention of doing so. If you must know."

Father was visibly discomfited, fixing his eyes to paintings on the opposite wall of her room and furrowing his brow into deep ripples.

"That's…" he stammered clumsily, "Good! A relief to hear. But I'm… Ah. I wasn't—"

The uneven kilter to his words and thoughts made two things clear: Elizabeth had little patience left for waffling through these subjects, and she now had an opening to take control of the conversation's turn, to press back against father's impressions of Will's character, and of the relations she entertained with him.

So she dove head in what started as a small string of assurance, but quickly swirled into a breathless tirade, "Estrella has been keeping watch over us almost constantly, precisely as you asked. And she has been very diligent about it, no matter what you may think. But even without her, we've been under constant observation by someone else practically at all times. Truly, one would think that your qualms over our affections being presented in public would be more pleased than anything, considering that means you know for certain what we are doing, when, and where. If anything, I feel quite keenly that we are being watched rather too well. I can barely have a simple conversation with him in proper privacy. So whatever the rumors may say, we haven't had time, space, or opportunity to even begin fucking, secretly, exuberantly or otherwise—"

"Elizabeth, please!" her father cut her off with an angry snap. "That is too much!"

She relented, holding herself back enough for the turbulence of her verbal inundation's larger meaning to settle back into a calmer stillness.

After a few reflective breaths, father added stiffly, "And I did not mean to imply you had erred so grossly."

Hadn't he? This was exactly why Elizabeth chose to forego these more genteel, subtle connotations.

She frowned at her father. "Then what is it you actually mean?"

He cleared his throat, and shifted a little in his chair. "I only mean… in the future, you both ought to be more mindful of how those sorts of indiscretions may come about. If you compare it to a ship, my dove: ships…"

Frustration boiled over in her and slipped out in an agitated laugh. Even after her frankness, he was crawling back into his cave of hyperbole.

Father pressed on insistently, "… ships do not steer too close to the shoals or the shore without risk of running aground. You both ought to take care of the direction the two of you are steering yourselves, which feelings you bring to the helm together, so that you may see to it that you bring yourselves to a safe and proper port in good time."

"What are you talking about?" she sighed. She knew perfectly well what he was talking about. "Speak plainly. You know I am not a child anymore, nor am I too delicate to consider these matters as they are. You've said it yourself when it concerns other affairs."

Father's lips pressed together firmly in a moment of reluctance.

"Yes, well. That does not make it any less awkward, does it?"

No, it didn't. But she knew for a fact that awkwardness came as a part of his job, one way or another. It came with life. And she knew he knew it as well. So she simply answered with another expectant pull of her eyebrow.

An unhappy puff of air out his nose signaled the beginning of father's answer.

"Fine," he conceded. Then he sat up, transforming his airs from one of a purely fretful father to a lord well-acquainted with the gritty details of diplomacy. Now his voice was soft but firm. "You need to be more mindful of the ways in which you touch him, Elizabeth."

Her eyebrow raised itself higher, again not quite having predicted the precise course of the conversation. Mindful touching, he said? Mindful how? If he meant touching Will less, then surely he understood how powerful her inclination would be to touch him even more.

He could perceive some of her thoughts on her face. With fingers steepled before his belly and an expression of pleading earnestness on his face, her father leaned forward to implore her, "When you put your hands on him so constantly and freely, it… sweetheart, that sort of thing is stimulating for a young man, and—"

"Only a young man?" she couldn't help retorting defensively.

"In this case, yes," father answered roundly. "These things affect men differently than they do women, Elizabeth. That just is simply the way of it."

She rolled her eyes openly and sagged back in her chair with the weight of her irritations. "Well, if you insist then it must be true…"

If he only knew…!

Granted, Elizabeth thanked heaven that he didn't—she didn't actually wish for those parts of herself to remain anywhere else but well outside her father's business. Yet even so, there was something maddening about the way the burdens of these decisions kept coming back to Will, in his eyes. Why did this continue to only be about the wildness of Will's lusts? Why was his burning considered a threat, while hers was merely a vulnerability? Did he really believe that Will's hands never woke wild feelings in her? That sometimes even lesser things, as small and simple as a little glance from him, did just as much? That only Will could be the one to let sanity or self-mastery slip once burdened by wanton fevers?

It was only Will, to him. Not her. And certainly not…

Another laugh of aggravation tore from her as she shook her head. Her eyes settled themselves back on her father as a bitter taste began to touch her tongue.

"Why is this only now worthy of expressed concern?" she couldn't resist questioning quietly. "You trusted us enough to leave us alone on Sunday. Nothing untoward happened. And you never felt the need to assign a chaperone or have staff hovering so closely about when Commodore Norrington was the one calling."

Her father's expression shifted into something grave, his head shaking as though he were offended. "Do not pretend like these circumstances are anything alike, Elizabeth. Your comportment around the commodore and his around you were both entirely different. And we both know why:" a steadying breath, "James Norrington is a gentleman."

A rush of rage made Elizabeth bare her teeth. "Will would be all that and more, if it weren't for—"

"And you were not in love, before," father spoke over her loudly with a hand outstretched in a quelling motion.

It worked, unexpectedly dousing the heat of her anger with a splash of refreshing truth. Her mouth hung open for a few seconds, the bite behind her words withdrawing beneath her surprise.

Into her retreat's spacious silence her father stepped, speaking with an air of conscientious tiptoes, "You were not in love, before. Now you are. And in that I am very happy for you, Elizabeth, please believe me when I say so."

A flurry of feelings washed over Elizabeth, tightening her throat and moistening her eyes ever so slightly. She fixed her vision to the letter still clasped in her hand, to the humble twists that its writer had used to depict her name.

Yes, she was in love. And how energized, how elevated, how uncaged she'd felt of late, taking her first leaps into such warm, uplifting winds with Will at her side. In the right times, life now felt like a dream she'd had often, as a child. It was one where she could fly, kicking off from the parapets atop the cliff, rushing over aquamarine waters to ships wide and far. Sea-song and shanties would mingle like they were always meant to out there, and she could dance atop the very tips of every mast her toes cared to touch, before leaping onto the next ship and the next and the next... All the way around the world.

That's what it was like, now. Only now it was better, because Will was following her close, dancing right beside her, like she'd wished he would for so long. At long last, she could openly pluck out the songs of her own heartstrings, to sing like a bird to others, to him, what truly living could feel like. Yet somehow it felt sweeter still to hear it played back to her by another, who had been listening and simply wanted to give her time to dance to her favorite song.

To hear it now from her father…

She looked back at him.

The tension had melted from his face—he'd been watching her, admiring the thoughts she'd let slip across her face. Left behind in his expression were shapes of concern, yes, but something much softer as well.

"I could never wish anything more than happiness for you, my dove," he professed softly. "But love is a very dangerous thing for a long engagement. Especially when the man you've chosen is lacking in status and means."

She sighed deeply. Still, the times father played her song had to be cut up in such brief fits and starts. Even though he acknowledged her feelings for Will, she was promptly reminded how his own esteem for Will had shifted very little yet.

"Dangerous?" she echoed back, slightly mystified. "How could his love be dangerous? It is the way he loves me that makes him so trustworthy—I've already expressed how he would never do anything to truly harm me or my honor. His earnings and status could never change that."

"I believe you, Elizabeth," father acknowledged. But creases returned to his brow, and he clasped his hands together as he leaned towards her with his forearms perched upon his knees. "I … I choose to believe you. But no matter what either of you feel, he is a danger to you—it isn't a matter of respect; it is a matter of practicality, and of nature."

Her scoff was as sharp as her offense. Nature?!

"Listen," he pleaded, before her umbrage could deepen. "I know the two of you are very fond of each other, Elizabeth—you have been as long as you've been acquainted, and that is a wonderful thing. Truly. You share a familiarity that many of any station would envy. But what you are likely experiencing together now is something I believe is safe to recognize as something quite different from the camaraderie of your childhood, something unfamiliar. Which is why I fear…" He faltered, seeming displeased with that word. Then he corrected himself, "I only wish for you not to make a mistake you may regret."

The word 'mistake' sent an unpleasant, chilly rush up her spine and froze up the mechanisms in her mind with dread. For a split second, she believed that her father was talking about her marriage—that Will himself was the mistake he believed she could come to regret. But then the shock passed, and the wheels in her mind began turning again, allowing her to remember the rest of what they'd been discussing for the past few minutes.

No, not Will. If he truly thought Will was a mistake, he wouldn't have allowed her to come this far with him.

A fresh spark of understanding lit up behind her eyes. "Meaning you fear I'll bear a child I may regret."

Father's face was filled with relief and sympathy. "Before he is properly prepared to rear them with you, yes. I do."

So that was what this was really about, the real danger that father saw hovering over them. Babies. Money… or the lack thereof. That was all.

This was a worry she could understand, far more intimately than any biases towards lowborn upbringings or slightly choleric tempers. It was almost funny, actually: the worries of her father were so much more in line with her future husband's than either of them were currently willing to see. Or perhaps they saw it but refused to admit it. Either way, with a little time and effort, she was more certain than ever that everything would come together—that they would come together, and all would be well in their family.

Elizabeth sighed a little laugh to herself, feeling herself somehow relieved.

Not only understandable, this also was a worry that was destined to be fleeting. She had full confidence that Will would soon have a name and a house built for them both, with a steady income they could rely on. Especially because she was determined to be right beside him, pulling her own weight one way or another.

It wasn't that hard to believe, was it? All this time they were spending by fretting over whether Will's money would be enough for her—she was beginning to feel as though everyone believed she would crumble at the first sign of hardship. But there could be no regret for her choice, not in the slightest, if they had to work harder to scrape by for a time. She was a part of this promised marriage—a whole half of it. Hadn't the events of her kidnapping taught them anything? And she could pull through difficulties as well as anyone else. Certainly, she still had to figure out exactly what it was she wanted to do in order to achieve her own independent contribution. But she had time yet. And she was certain: with their combined talents, there wasn't a chance in hell that their children would be raised any other way besides knowing sturdy roofs, clean clothes, full bellies, and even fuller hearts.

Through both their efforts—she would make her father see it soon, and teach him to see it as something good.

As for the possibility she or Will could allow the first of those children to be considered an untimely mistake…

"I won't. We won't," Elizabeth tried to reassure her father with open earnestness. "You know Will is not a selfish man, father. He thinks of me far more than he thinks of himself. And I can swear to you he would never do anything that would unjustly burden me or otherwise bind me down. It isn't what he wants."

"He doesn't need to want to burden you, Elizabeth, for the two of you to stumble into it through a moment or two of weakness," he answered with a soft soberness. Then, looking for some levity, he offered her a little smile. "I was a young man too, once. And I have not completely forgotten what it was like."

Father had some sound reason to his argument, as usual. And in her mind Elizabeth cursed him a little for it.

Yet she continued to turn more of her own arguments over in her head. She was growing more and more certain that the real risk of conception was overblown to begin with. She only didn't feel it would help her cause to say so. Her father was not a person who had ever had to face the prospect of childbearing, while she was a person who had for many years now. There were simply concerns to it she felt he could never understand. Besides, there was no way Violet could have carried on as long as she claimed to have done if it were truly that big of a risk without remedy. Elizabeth could simply ask her friend for her secrets during her next visit… or maybe even through a discreetly phrased letter or two. Then the issue could be nullified entirely.

Until then, father would continue to worry. And she would have to concede when his worries were not yet made altogether unfounded.

He seemed encouraged when her face remained thoughtful and free of the combativeness that stormed between them so often lately. He let a breath in another sign of his relief, and leaned back into the comfort of her tall, soft chair. He let his eyes slip shut for a moment, whether to give himself a little rest or to fall deeper into his thoughts she wasn't certain.

Then his lips parted. "You ought to be careful how you think of him, darling. Love makes us see the greater parts of a flawed person, and it is a magnificent blessing in that way. But that is also part of the danger of which I speak."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed to this unforeseen advice, but she did not question it just yet.

Eyes opened, her father looked her way again. And in the lines of his face she could read the experiences that had shaped his counsel. "You must always remember William Turner is just a man—one young and quite unlike those amongst whom you've been raised. There are differences between you which I believe you do not yet see in full light. Days will come where he will likely disappoint you, as you will him. And I would advise you… to not turn him into an idol when he cannot live up to it—for when it comes, the disappointment could become too great to bear."

Her lips twitched upward at that.

Will, an idol? How could she ever turn him into anything more than what he was? True he'd grown and proven himself to her in ways she thought magnificent—in some ways with his swords, and his daring, and their recently shared adventure, he was very nearly her richest daydream come true. But she knew him as more than a dashing hero. She remembered the times shared before, when he would once try to flip their sword fighting sticks about impressively, only to whack himself square in the eye. She

She didn't idolize Will. She loved him. It was different.

A sudden, quiet memory came to Elizabeth's mind, of father placing his hands upon the shoulders of a woman with tightly coiled hair, a kiss upon her cheek. Then, years later, standing in the place that woman once stood, pressing a lock of hair inside of a silver locket to his lips in her place…

"You idolized mother," she tossed back in a gentle mock-accusation.

Father's eyebrows sprang upward as he looked back at her. Then they fell again as warmth overwhelmed his expression. "Yes, well… That, of course, was different—she was perfect."

Their chuckles mingled for a moment, until he perched his temple upon his fingertips, leaning against the chair's arm. For another few minutes they studied each other, although this time without needing to search out strategies or tediously hidden thoughts. Instead it occurred to Elizabeth that she could no longer remember what her father looked like ten years ago—he existed then as he existed now, even though she knew time had changed him.

Perhaps he was thinking something much the same as he looked at her—or perhaps he was thinking the very opposite. In any case, when he spoke again, it was as though he'd read a little of her mind:

"I ask, Elizabeth, that you trust the wrinkles surrounding these eyes, and the many things they have witnessed: true, lasting love isn't blind, my dove, it is wide-eyed and understanding."

Her heart stirred within her, prompting her fingers to clench the letter in her hand tighter.

"I know," she answered. "It is not out of fear that I speak so highly of him, father. I just don't understand what it is that makes it so hard for you to see the better parts of him."

His smile slipped, eyes casting themselves back down into a subtle shadow of somberness.

"I do see them," he whispered.

"Do you?" she challenged before she could stop herself. Her skepticism was stronger than her tact.

"Yes," he answered easily. "I would not have even considered your marriage otherwise. How could I?"

Yes, that was true enough. But even so, there was something … lacking to the way father merely withheld his displeasures over Will's perceived failings, when compared to the way he had once openly celebrated the commodore's. Thinking more deeply, Elizabeth could hardly recall one single compliment he'd ever paid Will that wasn't summoned up in defense of an argument, or some other similar situation that pressed him into it.

The realization made her heart ache. The gap between those two stood so needlessly wide…

"Did you know…" father's voice drew her attention back to him, where she was surprised to find a genuine warmth in his expression, "… when he makes you laugh like you were yesterday, you sound exactly like your mother?"

A flicker of joy lit in her, brightening her smile and lifting her shoulders up.

"Really?" she chirruped, leaning forward with a genuine interest, as though reading her father's face more closely would take her deeper into his memories.

"Yes. Very much," he confirmed. And she watched as the familiar stains of sadness began to creepy into his eyes. "I'd almost forgotten what it sounded like..."

So had she. No, worse—she had forgotten. But she remembered the sound of other things, especially her whispers and her songs. She remembered their song, about the forbidden raucousness of living a pirate's life…

Her eyes returned to the present, to her father. Her father's eyes returned to the present, returned to her.

And he smiled once more. "I love to see you smile, my darling. And I am not here to condemn the man you love. Please believe me when I say that. I watch you with him, and it is plain how happy you are. I simply hope that you recognize that this sort of happiness is fragile, precious. You will not always love him the way you do now. Even when it does not shatter or disappear, it changes with time. If you wish to preserve the best of it, there are choices you must make now which will protect your hearts later. So take my advice, and be careful with him. Please."

It was wisdom, plain, sound, and simple. And this time she could find no reason to deny it. So after a short moment of consideration, Elizabeth nodded to her father. Perhaps it wouldn't be as fully as he would like, but she would consider his advice in good faith—after all, that was the spirit he had given it.